


Like Electric Shocks

by bloodscout



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood Magic, Canon Typical Violence, Case Fic, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post 5x04 The End, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-07
Updated: 2012-11-07
Packaged: 2017-11-19 13:50:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/573947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodscout/pseuds/bloodscout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What use is an angel if he can no longer heal?<br/>Dean, Sam and Castiel track a series of ritual killings to Memphis, but are caught off guard by a pack of demons, who strip Castiel of his ability to heal.<br/>Set directly after 5x04: The End. Mostly pre-slash. Guest appearance from Aziraphale, of Good Omens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Memphis

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2012 DeanCas Big Bang.  
> This is both my first minibang and my longest fic ever, and I am very, very proud of it. I couldn't have done it without my beta team, ([Jemima](http://constantcreep.livejournal.com/wantarideinmytardis.tumblr.com), [Annabelle](http://constantcreep.livejournal.com/theothercrawley.tumblr.com) and [Lucie](http://constantcreep.livejournal.com/fishoutofcustard.tumblr.com)) who pushed me through the writer's block.  
> Art link coming soon.

I.

Dean never sleeps as if he is alone. Each night, one arm rests on his stomach and the other is thrown out, tucked beneath the neck of the invisible person lying next to him. There is a perfect space for someone else to slip in next to him, to crawl right in. It isn’t sexual – this is a habit Dean has always had, long before his one-night stands and few day flings became frequent occurrences. When Sam was younger, when he was too young to with the nightmares on his own, he would crawl under the covers and slip his tiny frame into the empty space between Dean’s arms. Dean would hold his little brother close, shielding away anything that tried to reach them, because even then he knew about the horrors that cloaked themselves in darkness.  
  
There was something peaceful about sleep. It was always quiet; an in-between world of sorts, free from the pain and anxiety of the waking world. It was in Castiel’s best interest to keep Dean and Sam in this in-between place for as long as possible each night. It allowed skin to stitch back together, muscles to unfurl, hair to grow. But it wasn’t just a physical consideration - Castiel needed Dean to have at least one way to escape his destiny, to escape Michael, to escape Lucifer.  
To escape himself.  
  
Castiel knows by now that he isn’t just looking after Dean until he says yes to Michael. He knows that he’s started to care for the human, not just the vessel. He’s started to see Dean as a friend.  
This has been a long time in the making, and it isn’t the first time he’s seen a change. Castiel thinks that he realised it outside the whorehouse, when he had made Dean laugh for the very first time. He had felt something - very quiet, very subtle - but something that he wanted to make happen again and again and again. It was the feeling of accomplishment, the kind of feeling you get from making someone forget about their worries. It was a good feeling, Castiel decided at the time, but it was also very  _human_.  
  
Dean rolls into his pillow a little, shrinking back into the covers as his arms are exposed to the cold of the unheated hotel room. Castiel can tell he is waking up, so he grabs the book closest to him and opens it to a random page. Of course, Castiel already has an extensive knowledge of the monsters described between the leather covers, but Dean doesn’t like waking up to someone watching him.  
  
Sam, actually, is the first one to wake. He stretches his long limbs, back popping and shoulders shifting back into place. He really is too large to be sleeping in motel beds, and he ends up sleeping on his side out of necessity rather than comfort. He yawns expansively, and with wild hair obscuring his eyes, he looks somewhat like a lion warming itself in the sun. He rubs sleep out of his eyes with the back of his hand, and for a moment, Castiel sees the little brother Dean still looks out for; sees  _Sammy_  instead of just  _Sam_.  
  
‘Hey Cas,’ Sam whispers, voice scratchy. He smiles, then mumbles something that ends with ‘shower’, and shuffles off towards the bathroom, clean clothes tucked under his arm.  
After the sound of the water hitting the tiles reaches a decent volume, Dean’s eyes slowly open, and Castiel is sure to look down at the book in his hands.  
  
‘Morning, Cas.’ Dean croaks, and Castiel looks up, his face awash with schooled impassivity. Uriel had often told him, during his early days on earth, that humans were perturbed by emotional response. Now, Castiel is more than sure that Uriel was fooling him, trying to set angels apart from the lesser aspects of creation, because Dean seemed to be more unnerved by Castiel’s apparent stoicism than any display of emotion that slipped out in the early days. Castiel wasn’t going to attempt to change now, however, if only because he no longer knew how.  
  
‘I could eat.’ Dean announces, stretching outwards. His back pops satisfyingly and he yawns lengthily. His mouth feels fuzzy and his legs are weak from the eight hours of disuse. Eight hours of sleep is like some kind of miracle, he thinks – he didn’t have to fight off some son of a bitch crawling through the window, didn’t have to answer a late night call from an acquaintance with a poltergeist – he could just rest.  
  
Castiel puts down his book and looks at Dean, eyes drawing together slightly. He nods, and turns to look out the window, seemingly ignoring his human charge. Dean doesn’t pay the strange angel much mind, and instead goes through his usual morning routine – gathering his clothes, pounding on the door and telling Sam to  _hurry up, you big girl, stop using all the hot water_ , checking to see if all his guns are there, checking again, and finally having a shower. It is a spectacular morning, because even if the spray is uneven and a bit lighter than Dean likes, the water is warm and he’s relaxed and clean when he steps out of the bathroom. He might even have time to get to a Laundromat today, wash some of the stuff he has in his duffel.  
  
They check out, and Castiel does actually take the car with them, instead of zapping himself to the diner straight away. Dean lets Sam sit in the front seat again, even though Cas has been riding shotgun for the past week. It’s easier than talking about their feelings ( _God forbid_ ) but Sam knows what Dean means by it. When Dean says ‘Get in the front, so your gigantic legs don’t get cramped up on the bench seat,’ what Sam hears is ‘I’m glad you’re back.’  
  
The diner is non-descript; no different from the thousand of others they’d passed through over the years. A few truckers sit at the counter, leaning wearily into their coffee and eggs. A young couple is tucked up in one of the booths, chattering quietly, and a group of nerdy teenagers are at a table right in the corner, pancakes and comics fighting for space on the vinyl top. The air is full of the smell of bacon and maple syrup and the coffee machine gurgles happily from behind the counter.  
  
Dean smiles at the waitress as he walks in, a habit he’d picked up from his father –  _‘Always smile at the waitress, Dean, and there’s a good chance she’ll make your coffee right.’_  – and the three men slip into a booth against the window, because Dean knows it’s always been Sam’s favourite spot. The menu is, again, nothing special, and he already knows what he wants without even looking.  
  
When the waitress wanders over, patting her apron down over her stomach, Dean shoots her another grin. She is an generic kind of pretty; symmetrical face, curvy in the kind of way Dean appreciates, a little tanned, brown-haired rather than blonde. The girl –  _Janie_ , Dean can now read on her nametag – clicks the pen in her hand and sets it, poised, above the notepad.  
  
‘What can I get you today?’ she asks brightly, matching Dean’s smile.  
  
Dean leans his arms onto the table, exuding his trademark flirty confidence that is his default setting around women. ‘I’ll have a coffee, black, and a plate of your best pancakes.’  
  
Sam frowns at his brother, no doubt envisioning the gallons of maple syrup that Dean will coat his breakfast in.  
  
‘Black coffee and a cheese melt, thanks.’ He says, eyes briefly flicking away from the window to meet Janie’s. Once, he would have gone for pancakes too, maybe with some strawberry syrup on the side, but he just can’t stomach them anymore.  
  
He still hadn’t told Dean why.  
  
Castiel’s brow furrows and he looks quizzically at the tabletop. He had been giving the menu the same level of concern that he would study a dangerous enochian ritual. The waitress, to her merit, waits patiently for Castiel’s order.  
  
Dean coughs awkwardly, and when Castiel doesn’t respond, decides that the most prudent course of action is to order for the angel. ‘Bacon and egg roll for him.’ Dean’s smile turns down at the corners, vaguely apologetic.  
  
Janie doesn’t seem bothered by the strange bunch, even as Castiel continues to stare intently at the menu. She just repeats their order back to Dean, promises their meals will be ready soon, turns on her heel and heads towards the kitchen.  
  
A few minutes too late, Castiel puts down the menu, making a light  _thwack_  as it hits the linoleum.  
  
‘I do not need sustenance, Dean.’ The angel intones.  
  
Dean stifles a smile and tries to keep the laughter out of his voice when he says ‘So have we got a job to talk about?’ Dean prompts, gesturing towards Sam.  
  
Sam looks back at Dean, visibly startled out of his thoughts. Though he only catches the words ‘job’ and ‘talk’, he makes an educated guess at Dean’s train of thought. He fishes a newspaper cut-out from his pocket and places it on the table in front of the other two men. ‘Horrific University Killings’ is emblazoned in large black capitals on the top of the article. Dean’s eyes flit over the smaller lines of text, eyes squinted slightly as he reads about the five murders on the university campus; all students, all male, all high achievers. The report is filled with familiar statements like ‘police are puzzled’, ‘this could be the work of a serial killer’, and ‘exercise reasonable precaution’. Dean only really gleans that the victims were drained of blood after death, the rest of the article consisting of meaningless platitudes designed to comfort a startled public. Given the thick pencil underline marked the paper, Sam thought that piece of information was important as well.  
  
Sam taps his finger on the table and slides his phone across, deliberately drawing his brother’s attention to the fuzzy picture on the screen. There is evidence of cleaning, but the pale arcs and lines still show, the white marble providing good contrast against the faint residue of human blood.  
  
‘That’s the latest crime scene. I think it could be a summoning.’ Sam remarks. ‘I can’t see the marking exactly – they’ve been scrubbed clean – but it could be.’  
  
‘I agree the whole deal looks strange, especially the draining of blood,’ Dean concedes, his skepticism clear in his tone, ‘but I don’t think it’s a summoning.’  
  
Sam frowns and Dean realises that he might have to elaborate. ‘I just don’t see the point. Lucifer’s out of his cage, right? What else could they need?’  
  
Castiel is still peering at the items on the table, focus periodically switching between the phone and the newspaper clipping. Finally, he nods, pushes the paper and phone across the table, and turns to Sam.  
  
‘Could we take a look at the scene, Sam?’ He asks, voice characteristically severe. It is still uncommon for the angel to call the younger Winchester by name, but he no longer treats the syllables like a curse, like they are a caustic substance burning his tongue and his lips, and for that, Sam is grateful.  
  
‘I was thinking about checking it out today, yeah.’ Dean still looks skeptical. ‘I mean, we’ll probably spend the better part of the day talking to witnesses, consolidating our facts, stuff like that.’  
  
It’s painfully obvious that Sam is trying to form a compromise with Dean, trying to alleviate the awkwardness. Dean’s expression hasn’t changed, though. ‘I don’t think this is our kind of thing, is all. It just sounds like some kind of crazy serial killer or something.’  
  
Dean frowns. Sam knows his brother wouldn’t admit he was wrong – the Winchester boys were raised stubborn.  
  
A few moments later, Janie comes back to the table, arms laden with plates and a cup of coffee held in each hand. Dean drops any talk of the case as soon as the food arrives. It would have been nice to believe that he hushed up because civilians were present, but that would be far too optimistic. In reality, Dean’s thought process went something more along the lines of ‘Can’t talk, pancakes.’

II.

After they have paid and Dean has no doubt secured the waitress’s phone number, they head towards the university. It is silently agreed that Sam will research the sigils in the library and Dean and Cas will speak to the witnesses. It’s a familiar layout that Dean and Sam have followed many times before, and for a while it’s almost like it always had been.  
  
It’s odd, really, that Dean is dropping Sam off outside the college library. As the taller boy leans through the car window to tell Dean to call him if he needed anything, Dean feels a sudden stab of loss as comes to the abrupt realisation that this is what their lives could have been like; before the fire, before Azazel, before the demon blood. Dean could have dropped Sam off at the library every weekend before driving down to the auto shop to get in some overtime, earning the extra cash so he could get his genius little brother through college. Instead, they were researching demons and monsters, and saving people’s lives.  
  
If he was honest with himself, Dean didn’t know which life was better.  
  
As Dean drives down the university road with Sam walking towards the monstrous University building, he sighs deeply. It isn’t that they’re still hostile to each other, but things aren’t going to be the same for a long time. Sam still left him, still deserted him, and it was carved into Dean’s very bones not to let the same thing hurt you twice. There was a part of him - the same part of him that told him to  _just take your brother and go. Now, Dean, go!_  - that wanted to turn around right now, to never come back, because Sam had chosen a normal life over him for the second damn time, and there was nothing stopping him from making that decision again. Dean’s shoulders tighten and his muscles draw together, pointlessly preparing for a fight that will never come.  
  
Behind him, Castiel shifts in his seat, but whether it is in reaction to Dean’s mood or just general discomfort, Dean is unsure. It better not be discomfort - he spends a lot of time on the upholstery on the back seat, just in case he ever needs to sleep on it.  
  
‘We’ll go talk with the janitor and cleaning staff first.’ Dean says, the silence finally getting too much for him. ‘We’ll take spare uniforms from the janitor’s closet.’ He probably has two cleaners’ uniforms somewhere, but not the most likely not with the right logo, and definitely not in Cas’ size.  
  
It is then that he realises the downfall in the plan - Dean’s car is not very subtle, and it is  _very_  obviously not a janitor’s car. If someone were to see him with it, his cover would be immediately blown, which is less than conducive to getting behind police tape. As much as he hates leaving his baby far away and in the open, the job is the most important thing right now. The moment the car stops moving, Castiel glances at Dean quickly and launches himself from the car. Dean takes his time in turning the key and getting out of the car. He gives the shiny black bonnet a soft, familiar pat, and thanks whoever he had to thank that it’s winter, when it’s too cold for parties and drunk idiots who could scratch it on their way home. He tilts his head towards the angel, signaling that they start off up the hill. Why does  _every_  college have to be on a hill? Castiel gives a low hum that means he’s coming. Dean likes that they don’t have to bother with meaningless sentences like “Get out of the car” or “We’re going this way” or “Oh god why didn’t you put a sock on the door”. It might be because Cas just reads his mind instead of talking to him, or it might be that they have some kind of wordless language between them. It’s like the kind of practiced ease he used to have with Sam, but was lost years ago.  
  
The frigid air burns his nose as he crosses the campus, and it’s a little uncomfortable, but there’s an oddly comfortable silence too, the kind that has been hanging around since he and Cas started hunting together. As they try to find an empty broom closet to liberate uniforms from, they pass another janitor. Dean gives a quick nod and a mumbled “hey” as he and Cas continue down the hall, trying to make it as familiar and inconspicuous as possible. The other man doesn’t seem suspicious of them, so Dean marks it up as success.  
  
It’s odd to be picking the lock to a janitor’s closet again; Dean used to do it all the time during high school. In fact, it was why perfected his lock picking skills in the first place. There is no bigger buzzkill than fiddling with a hairpin and a lock when all you want to do is make out with whoever you have with you. It only takes a few seconds before Dean hears a click and he swings the door outwards to find a few uniforms hanging on some nails that had been hammered into the wood. Instead of changing in the closet, because it’s cramped and dusty and a little awkward, Dean directs Cas towards the bathrooms he saw down the hall. He dearly hopes Cas knows how to change clothes; he doesn’t think he’s worn anything but Jimmy’s button down and dull trench coat since they first met him. Luckily, it seems to have worked, because when Dean sees the angel again, he is clad in the stock-standard polyester uniform. Reconvening at the broom closet is one of the most hilarious experiences of Dean’s life. Castiel looks horribly awkward like this, the dustpan and brush held gawkily in each hand. However uncomfortable he seemed in his trenchcoat and suit seems to have multiplied tenfold, with the grey jumpsuit hanging from his frame like an old skin he was trying to shed. Dean isn’t sure if he was allowed to think it, is slightly worried that Zachariah will appear out of nowhere and smite him down for the mere thought - but it all makes Castiel seem very human. Angels - or at least the ones Dean knows - don’t define themselves by their clothing. Half the time, it’s like Zachariah acts as if he isn’t wearing clothes at all, as if he were constantly in his true form. Castiel seems more grounded than his brethren ( _and less of a dick_ , Dean can’t help but think) and he is definitely more aware of what he is wearing. He has gone so far as to develop a habit, to get used to one set of clothing; to find comfort in material possessions. Not that Dean is heaven’s poster boy, but to him, that doesn’t seem very angelic at all.  
  
Dean doesn’t think it’s a bad thing, though. Sure, there are some downright evil sons of bitches out there, but there are also some really amazing humans too. People like his mother, or people like Ellen and Jo. Dean just smirks as he hangs up Cas’ trench on the nails-come-coathooks that protrude from the door, and stashes the rest of their clothes behind an empty tin of paint. As he bends down, he can see Cas’ expensive leather dress shoes poking out from the elasticised pant cuffs.  
  
Dean ineffectually swabs at the floor with his mop, the grey water leaving streaks along the flecked marble. He honestly has no idea how you can clean anything with this water; he couldn’t even see the bottom of the bucket when he wheeled it out of the cupboard. It probably works to their advantage - if the real cleaners were using water as dirty as this, there is less chance that the markings were cleaned away. Cas is crouched down a few metres away, on the other side of the police tape. His fingers are splayed on the ground, like he is feeling the earth move beneath him. Really, it’s probably just to keep his balance - his centre of gravity is pitched forwards, like he has something counterbalancing him from behind, something grounding him.  
This is a familiar sight - it is not rare for Dean to find Castiel sitting like he still has wings.  
He swipes the floor with his mop a few more times before Castiel calls out to him.  
  
‘Dean, this looks familiar. We’ve seen this before.’  
  
Castiel points at one of the symbols on the floor. It’s the most vague one out of the eight or so that Dean can see on the floor. He ducks under the tape and drops to one knee next to Cas.  
  
‘We’ve been seeing these all over the place.’ Dean agrees, waving a finger between two symbols that bear a passing resemblance to a y and a w. ‘Mostly graffiti on library desks and around colleges. We thought it was from a new television show or something.’  
  
Castiel traces the first symbol with two fingers, like he does when he’s drawing banishing sigils.  
  
Dean’s eyebrows draw together. ‘Is it Enochian?’  
  
Castiel shakes his head. ‘No. It bears its similarities,’ he draws a finger across the marble, tracing the character. ‘but it’s not Enochian.’  
  
Dean snorts. ‘Maybe they are Enochian,’ He says, the side of his lip curling into a dry smirk. ‘But it was just drawn by a cupid with really bad handwriting.’  
  
Before he can catch Castiel’s confused expression, he slips his hand into his pocket and pulls out his phone, snapping pictures of each of the runes and sending them to Sam.  
  
A few minutes later, he gets a reply.  
  
 _Got it. Come pick me up._

Over a quick college student lunch, Sam explains his research. From newspapers, he’s gathered that they’re dealing with a series of scheduled deaths, with the same two symbols at each scene. Supplemented with lore, it looks like ritual sacrifices, and from what he can discern, the script the killers are using was something ancient and demonic, a bastardisation of basic Enochian. Sam thinks it might be demons trying to raise a very powerful being – reputably one of the most  _creative_  demons around. He is so wrapped up in his explanation that he takes almost twice as long for him to finish his sandwich than it takes either Dean or Cas to finish their own.

‘We should check the college library for marks of its own.’ Dean suggests.

Sam nods emphatically, but his mouth is full of bread, so he doesn’t reply in any way other than that. His cheeks are pink from his excited diatribes and he has taken a bite too large for his mouth in his haste to finish his sandwich. Dean is reminded of when he used to take a nine-year-old Sam out to diners, where the little boy would order as much food as he was allowed and ignore it all in favour of talking Dean’s ear off about whatever book he was reading that week.

‘We’ll go this evening. We’re less likely to be noticed that way.’ Dean confirms. He doesn’t need to explain to Sam – they’ve done this enough times for it to be second nature to them both – but he feels like he should explain to Cas, to keep him in the loop too.

With everyone in agreement and understanding, Dean finds that yes, he does have time for the laundromat.

 

III.

The girl behind the returns desk smiles at Sam again, obviously recognizing him from earlier on that day. Dean smirks to himself – Sam Winchester, librarian whisperer. Sam really does fit in here, Dean notices. Of the few students they’ve seen today, most of them have been around Sam’s age, maybe a little younger. Even though he is the size of a small sky scraper, Sam does not stick out among the other students here. Other students - which, yes, they need to fix. They need to keep those kids – five, there’s only five – distracted while they check for markings around the library. One of them is going to need to distract the students, and it seems obvious that it would be Sam. Dean’s just a little too old to move freely in a college setting, and certainly too old to be pulling all-nighters at the library. Castiel, especially with the suit that has managed to stay relatively clean under his trench – now returned from its hiding place in the broom closet – looks like a lecturer, but the manic kind that seem about as old as the books they’re studying. Neither of them are really “distracting the students” material.

Dean elbows Sam in the side, nudging him towards the group of students huddled around the table. Sam makes a face that Dean understands as something along the lines of ‘If I kill you, they will never find your body’, but doesn’t make any attempt at arguing. Sam likes college kids, Dean knows it.

On the way over, Sam writes himself a cover story in his head. He grabs a few random books from the nearest shelf and fishes an everpresent pen from his pocket.

‘Hey,’ he says, his sheepish expression a mix of acting and genuine awkwardness. ‘I’m Sam.’

Three of the five turn around, and Sam takes the opportunity to glance at the notes they’re looking at. French. Alright, he can work with that.

‘I think I’m in your French class. You’re…’ he introduces, the end of the sentence trailing of into a question.

‘Nita. I’m Nita.’ the girl who is closest to him greets him. She jerks her head towards an empty seat in invitation and Sam plants his books on the table. In proper college fashion, the centre of the table is filled with communal notes, sweets and chocolate.

Nita, who seems to be the only one who is talking to him, introduces the rest of the people at the table. ‘That’s Jemima and Gabriel,’ she gestures to a blonde girl who is grumbling over what looks like a poetry annotation and the ginger boy who is attacking his paper with a green highlighter; ‘and that’s Annabelle,’ Nita explains, indicating the stunning redhead who is scribbling in the margins of a history textbook; ‘and this is Amy.’

Amy smiles at him sweetly, the first person other than Nita to agknowledge him.

‘Do you know anything about the past subjunctive?’ Nita asks, pushing her notes towards him.

Dean decides the best way to search for symbols would be systematically, so he leads Cas right up to the back of the stacks and starts moving back forward. Castiel starts pulling books off the shelves and flicking through them. Dean looks at him, a little incredulous.

‘We can catch up on our summer reading later, Cas. Right now we need to find the demon.’ He says, his smirk falling a little flat.

Castiel frowns. ‘You said you’ve seen these markings in college libraries, correct?’ Dean nods, because it seems like Castiel needs him to. ‘Then it may be the books that are the connection.’ He says, tone brooking no argument. The angel goes back to examining the books; first the front cover, then the back, then he runs his fingers over the spine, and flicks through the pages.

Dean looks over at Castiel and for a second, and is deeply unsettled. He is still seeing the Future Cas when he looks at the angel. Every time he turns around, he sees a faraway stare instead of an intense gaze, a hemp shirt instead of a tan trenchcoat, smells weed smoke and sex and sweat instead of dust and ozone and sea salt. He doesn’t know how he feels about it, doesn’t know what he would do if Cas were to fall. The Cas from the future was so relaxed and so human that Dean almost didn’t know who he was speaking to. It was the same face, the same eyes, but a different personality altogether. And it could have been the drugs or it could have been the women, but that Castiel seemed a lot more relaxed than the one he was with now. That’s not to say that it wasn’t without an undercurrent of sadness, deep and intense, but Dean has the feeling that everyone at Camp Chitaqua was like that – relaxed and laid back on the outside, but swimming with anger and sorrow just inches below the surface.

For now, at least, Dean was happy with the Castiel he had. He was quiet and severe and just that little bit short of entirely human, but at least he wasn’t subject to the contradictory, painful horror that were human emotions.

‘Alright, you hit the books. I’m going to be a little more  _practical_.’ Dean smirks, and brushes his fingers over the shelves, half to look for sulphur, half to just have something solid running under his fingers. He feels the dips and grooves of the wood, smooth tracks worn by book covers sliding across shelves.

He finds no powder and no distinctive sulphur smell the first time he checks the shelves, so he checks again, going so far as to stand on the little step and check the tops of the shelves. Again, nothing. Dean’s brows draw together in consternation, and he looks over at Castiel to see if he has found anything. The angel is still standing next to the books, flicking through them quickly without pausing to read the text. Dean assumes that’s how angels read. He turns back to the shelves, still running a finger over the old wood, but sulphur doesn’t magically appear under his touch. He would be more than a little unnerved if it did. His other hand slips a small black box out of his inner pocket and he switches on the EMF reader with a practiced twist.

Immediately, the device shrieks at the hunter, little needle spinning across the display. Dean lets out a small, triumphant ‘Yes!’, and he swings the antenna around again, trying to get a fix on where the readings are coming from. Strangely, the readings stay virtually the same throughout the entire revolution, aside from the small flicker of the needle. Dean backs away slowly, fully aware that he could be standing on a poltergeist hotspot, but the readings follow him, almost like they are attached to his body. By now, Castiel has noticed the hunter’s frantic movement and has put back the books, hand hovering over the spines. Dean pats down his coat, trying to think what he could have picked up over the past few days that could possibly be cursed. He jams his hand into his pockets, leaving the EMF reader on the shelf. It continues to shriek and click with a more or less regular pace. But there’s nothing  _in_  Dean’s pockets – just his phone, and his wallet and-

His  _phone_.

Dean hits the power button, and the EMF reader stops its protests immediately, only releasing an occasional sedate click. Dean thrusts his cell back into his pocket, scowling at his surroundings. That was a stupid mistake, a rookie mistake. If John had been there, he would have –

Except John’s not there. It’s just Sam and Cas and Dean.

‘Do you need some help with those books, Cas?’ Dean asks, tugging on the binding of one closest to him.

One of the girls – the blonde, Amy – smiles up at Sam. ‘It’s cool that you’re here. It’s always so creepy here late at night.’ Her smile is a little cheeky, and Sam can’t help but ask for more.

‘Oh, Amy, no.’ Nita chastises. ‘He’s a person, not a ghost story.’

‘Spoilsport.’ Amy huffs, and Sam loses a little of the respect he had for her.

Nita rolls her eyes. ‘Whatever, tell him. Doesn’t bother me.’ She says, passive-aggressiveness dripping off every word.

Amy childishly pokes out her tongue, but then turns all her attention to Sam. ‘It’s creepy,’ her voice lowers theatrically, and Sam knows she’s putting on a show, but he thinks he might have something here. ‘because a few months ago, a student librarian was  _murdered_  here.’

Annabelle looks up from her fervent note taking to glare at Amy, willing her to shut up. Sam agrees with her sentiment, raising his eyebrow skeptically. If he had a dime for every college that had a rumored murder on campus…

‘No, really! I knew him, he used to hang out with that girl who was friends with Lucie, you know?’

Sam nodded. He didn’t know, obviously, but he pretended.

‘He was always in the library. I mean, every time I came to study, he’d be working. Then, one night he was working late. I mean, I don’t know what exactly happened. – it was all hushed up afterwards, you know? – but he got in a fight with this guy, and he killed him! Right in the library!’ Amy flung her arms wide theatrically, apparently pleased with her story. Nita snorted derisively. ‘And they never caught the guy. He could still be out there.’

Sam smiled weakly, but he wasn’t thinking about the story any more. He was thinking about vendettas and violent deaths and unresolved conflict – all things that add up to a vengeful spirit. And they’re surrounded by large, heavy bookcases that are perfect for tipping on older brothers and angels of the lord.

‘I… Uh, give me a second, I’ll be back.’ Sam says, before vaulting out of his seat to find Dean and Cas.

He’s not sure where they are, so he ends up running through the stacks, looking down the aisles like a kid who’s lost their parents in the supermarket. He finds them flicking through books, with Dean on the floor and Cas leaning slightly against one of the shelves. Sam slams his hand down on top of the page Dean has open.

‘I’ve worked out what we’re dealing with.’

Dean raises an eyebrow in a silent question.

‘Vengeful spirit. A guy was killed here a while back.’ He’s breathing a little heavily.

Dean nods and shuts his book, after brushing Sam’s gigantic hand off the page.

‘Did you ask where he’s buried?’ Dean asks, strangely calm, as he slips the book back with the others.

Sam looks sheepish. ‘No.’

Cas catches on to what’s happening and slots his book back into the space waiting for it on he shelf.

Dean makes a soft noise of frustration. ‘Well we kind of need that.’ He starts to weave his way back through the stacks and Sam follows him like Theseus following his ball of wool.

Sam tries to act as casual as possible when he returns.

‘Sorry about that, just thought my brother and his friend would like to hear the story.’ He lies. Dean leans his hip against the table and follows Sam’s gaze to the blonde girl. His smile is just the right side of flirty, and Amy bathes in the attention.

‘So there was this guy, Clyde Halli-’ Suddenly, there was a loud bang as the main doors slammed shut. The kids at the table jumped, and even Sam is startled out of his slouch. One of them shrieked, startled by the noise. Amy turns towards the other blonde, – Jemima? – glaring at her as if she had purposely interrupted the story. Jemima lets out a self-deprecating laugh, a little shaky with surprise. ‘Probably wind,’ she explains, and Amy continues with her story like she hadn’t just queen-bee’d all over one of her study partners.

‘So Clyde used to work at the library some nights. I’d see him around, but he was always a little jumpy. You know, weird.’

The students don’t much attention to the textbook that falls off the shelf, but Dean heard the thud and catches Castiel’s eye.

‘Ghost,’ he mouths, and Castiel nods in assent. Dean is puzzled, though, because he still isn’t picking up any EMF, the reader still ticking away steadily in his jacket pocket.

‘and there were always rumours, you know? That he was the person to go to for-’ Amy continues, and Sam is obviously still listening in, but Dean’s focus has shifted away from the table. He is waiting for the lights to flicker, for another few books to fly off the shelves. Sam’s drumming a nervous beat on the table, so he’s obviously thinking the same thing as Cas and Dean.

‘-and he really should have been more careful. I mean, none of this would have happened if he was a little quieter about it-’

There was a buzz and a crack of electricity, and a bulb overhead goes out. Sam turns to Dean, dropping his façade of complete concentration. Dean saw the ‘we need to get out here’ in his face. Amy was still continuing with her story, but no-one was listening now, because books are falling off the shelves with a steady frequency, a waterfall of paper and leather binding. The other people were looking around, trying to catch sight of whoever is pushing the books over.

One of the kids makes a move to check behind the shelves, but that action triggers something, and the doors slam shut. The noise startles the students, and one of them squeals at the noise.

‘Must be wind.’ Someone whispers, but Sam knows it’s nothing but.

There’s a marked shift in the air, like time has slowed down around them. The drumming of paper on the floor stops for a moment, and there is silence. Then, unexpectedly, a shelf full of books launches itself outwards like machine gun fire, hardbacks barely missing the students.

‘Jesus!’ Amy shrieks, arms flying up to protect her head.

‘Doors!’ Dean yells, jerking his finger towards the entrance of the library.

Sam nods and grabs the wrist of whoever is closest to him – he’s not sure who – and pulls them along with the others. Dean’s the first one to reach the doors, but when he twists the doorknob, nothing moves. He leans his whole body weight up against it, runs up against it like a bull, but he just collects bruises along his arms and shoulders.

Sam realises it’s Nita’s hand he’s holding, and she turns to him.

‘What’s happening?’ she asks through labored breath, forceful in a way that demands an answer.

Sam’s eyes cast around the room, but the answer he can think of is the truth. And Nita’s smart – he’s not going to insult her intelligence with a worn out lie.

‘A ghost. A… vengeful spirit.’

‘Okay,’ Nita says, and her breathing slows. ‘Okay.’

Suddenly, they hear Dean shout. ‘Shit!’ He swears, pounding a fist against the wood. ‘Fuck it, it’s locked!’

Dean turns to Cas, eyes wild. ‘What are we going to do?’ he asks, seconds away from panic. It’s always like this, like each life is his own personal responsibility.

In that moment, Castiel sees two options. He keep his powers to himself, hide them from humans like he is supposed to, or he could save these people. Seven people, all beautiful, all unique, all capable of becoming something brilliant – or, perhaps, he thinks, already are. He could see the way every one of their deaths weigh on Dean for weeks,  _months_  into the future.

Or…

When he is entirely honest with himself, there is no contest. He knows exactly what he has to do.

He holds Dean’s shoulder, his grip calming the hunter’s furious pounding on the door. Placing his hands on the door, Castiel reaches for his Grace, ever-present and ever-bright. His eyes light up briefly, and there is a click as the doors swing open. There is a collective exhale of relief, and everybody flows out of the library into the night air.

Nita backs against the wall, wheezing out a ‘wait’. Sam grabs Dean’s elbow, tells him to stop. Nita braces her hands on her knees, bends over and stares at the ground between her sneakers. Sam thinks she’s going to throw up.

‘So that… that was a ghost.’

Sam nods, resting a hand on her shoulder.

‘A ghost. A  _real_ ghost.’ Nita takes a deep breath and lets it out in a rush. She is obviously trying to calm herself down and it is obviously not working.

‘No, no, no, no.’ she chants, breathing becoming erratic.

It is about this time that Castiel steps forward. Sam is about to pull him back, but something about Castiel’s serene expression convinces him otherwise.

‘The world is always larger than you think.’ He says, his deep voice even and calm. He rubs a hand along Nita’s back, circles the nape of her neck with a thumb. Nita hiccups a little. ‘And so while you will never know all of the world’s horrors, you will never know all the world’s goodness either.’

He continues to run his hand along the girl’s back until her breathing steadies itself, and she is no longer in danger of hyperventilating. Castiel backs off and Nita straightens up.

‘Where’s he buried?’ Dean asks gruffly. Nita looks a little surprised at his callousness, but Dean didn’t care because he didn’t have  _time_  to play nice with college kids tonight, goddamnnit. His fingers were already curling and uncurling around the lighter in his pocket.

‘In the church, not far from here.’ The brunette says, the quaver in her voice only just noticeable. ‘Our Sociology class went to his funeral.’

Sam nods at her, the set of his eyebrows turning his face soft with empathy. ‘Thank you. That’s really helpful.’ He says sincerely. Castiel nods in agreement.

It occurs to Dean that the angel is becoming more used to human body language. He’s getting better at saying things without words. He still looks odd to “ordinary” people – if there is such thing – but in a corner-of-your-eye-can’t-quite-put-a-finger-on-it way. Dean isn’t quite sure how he feels about it, honestly; he’s still unable to choose between images of the dusty, slutty, constantly high Cas Of The Future and the detached, unearthly, wrathful Angel of the Lord he first met in that warehouse. He hopes that the murky darkness conceals the way he has been staring at his friend. He doubts darkness impedes Castiel’s vision, but he is mostly worried about Sam, because Sam is the only one who can properly ridicule him. Castiel probably couldn’t be offensive if he tried.

Nita pointed vaguely westwards. ‘That way.’ She supplied.

‘We just need to get to the car, we’ve got supplies in the trunk.’ Sam said, still using the same gentle tone. Dean had already started to stalk off towards the car, shoulders hunched in determination.

 

IV.

Sam drives his shovel into the ground first, arms heaving dirt from the soil. The ground hasn’t been patted down properly, so the earth is loose enough that he can pull out more than half a shovel-full each time he digs down. The girl is looking nervously at the gravestone, and Sam can imagine what she is thinking. Unlike Dean, he can remember everything about his first salt and burn. The man’s name was George – George Thomson. He was twenty-three when he died, and he was still in his suit when John had smashed in the lid of the shiny black coffin. That seemed to make it all the worse, at the time. Sam could smell the wet dirt and rotting flesh for weeks afterwards.

  
Dean is so deep in the grave, crowbar raised over his shoulder, that he almost misses the inky figure peel itself from behind a crypt. Almost.

Dean curses under his breath. He calls to Sam in a stage whisper, trying to maintain the facade of ignorance. The younger Winchester peers down at his brother, but the figure is already advancing. Castiel tenses as he sees the shape creep closer and he makes emphatic eyebrows at Sam, but the damn  _idiot_  doesn’t understand.

‘Demon!’ Dean finally spits out, and Sam’s eyes go wide before he turns around to face whatever creature is trying to get to him.

Dean  _definitely_  misses the second demon, who silently slips out from behind a thicket of bushes. Sam throws a punch, and he drops the flashlight he was holding to prepare for the next hit. As the torch rolls on the ground, the light catches a sixth set of feet. Nita spins on her heel at the last minute and she screams as the demon throws an arm around her neck, blocking her airways. She struggles as Dean vaults himself out of the grave, but it’s a fight against an ordinary, inexperienced girl and a supernatural being - the winner is blindingly obvious.

Dean fumbles with his knife - stupid, stupid mistake - and the demon takes opportunity to switch his grip on the shocked girl. He grabs Nita by the shoulder and throws her back against the nearest gravestone, grinning manically at the fear that sparks in her eyes as she hurtles back towards the stone. There is a crack, but not a crack of bone, thankfully. The girl goes limp, unconscious.

Sam looks over to her briefly, just long enough to check that her chest is still moving, that she’s still alive, before he focuses entirely on his struggle to get to the gun out of his back pocket. Really, the number of times he or Dean or someone they were with have been thrown against a gravestone has become ridiculous. They seemed to pose more of a hazard than was probably first intended. Granted, people weren’t really supposed to be digging up graves on a regular basis either. He knees the demon in the groin - thank god for human physiology - and bites down on his shoulder as he fell to his knees. Dean sees his brother’s teeth meet the demon’s shoulder, and for a second, he thinks Sam is about to drink the demon’s blood, and a shock of fear spreads down his spine.

Dean’s gets the demon knife free and he’s hurtling towards Sam, whose tussle with the demon is moving him further away from everyone else, but something gets him from behind, pins his elbows together and twists his shoulders at a painful angle. He is well aware that if the demon gets a hold of the knife, their best weapon will be lost, so he counts his chances and drops it to the floor, kicking it away from the demons and the torchlight and, unfortunately, Sam. He is still wildly twisting and turning, trying to get a look at whoever is behind him, but then he is winded, a third demon jumping on him and knocking him backwards into the dirt he had just dug up, arms still twisted awkwardly. Thankfully, the earth cushions his fall, or he would have been fighting with severely broken limbs. All he can smell is her hair and the blood matting the blonde locks, no doubt from the poor girl who she’s taken for a ride. He throws his head to the side, but that only fills his mouth and nose with dirt, and he can’t see Sam clearly any more, doesn’t know what the odds are. Even as the demon on top of him pulls out a glinting knife, her eyes flicking to black and staying there, his thoughts are a rush of  _samsamhe’syourbrotherhe’syourresponsibilitysam_.

He tries to throw her off, croaks out ‘Cas!’ as loudly as he can with a demon sitting on his diaphragm and crushing his lungs, one taloned hand on his breastbone. The demon who was behind him yanks out one arm and the blonde licks her lips at the sight of exposed flesh. The grunts of Sam and his assailants seem far away as she slides the blade across skin; flat first, then cutting into the skin, blood welling up. One stroke, two, like a swimmer’s arm through water. This isn’t designed to hurt him; the strokes are too careful, too precise, to be threats or acts of violence. No, the demons have something else in mind. Dean feels electric shocks race up his arms, from the tips his fingers to the handprint on his shoulder. It’s like his blood is burning from the inside out, and if he could turn to look at the cuts as the knife slits his skin, he’s sure the blood would be sparking like fireworks. He can feel the scrape of a bowl along his skin, collecting the blood that flows from the small gashes on his arm. He tries to fight the grip on his wrist and elbow, because in his mind, demons plus blood inevitably equals bad.

Trying desperately to avoid whatever they’re planning, he twists violently. The knife drags viciously as the demon’s centre of gravity shifts. He takes advantage of her confusion to drive a knee towards her back, landing a hit to her kidneys. She drops the knife, and Dean could shout with joy, but instead he twists again, smashing her into her accomplice, who lets go of his arm. Dean throws himself to his feet and he pushes a foot into the stomach of the other demon, who cries out in pain. Dean whips around, searching for Sam, for Cas, for anyone. He catches a glimpse of Nita, as she runs in the opposite direction of the fight. He doesn’t begrudge her - this is fra too dangerous for her to be involved in.

He sees Cas, who is cornered by two demons. They have pressed him against the wall of the cemetery, the streetlamp’s sickly shards of light highlighting faces and bodies. His arms are fixed at right angles from his body and he cannot move to purge the demon’s souls. There is something keeping his limbs in place, holding them in a cruel mockery of the crucifix. Dean he can’t see any physical restraints, even though there is obviously something there. These demons must be incredibly powerful - maybe even the most powerful they had seen since Lilith - if they have the power to hold down an angel. Then the shorter one pulls out a blade, and Dean is frozen still. It is double edged, tapered at each end, somewhere between a dagger and a sword. Dean knows that he is looking at an angel’s blade, and he knows what it could do.

Instead of driving the blade straight into Castiel’s stomach, it travels sideways, leaving a long but blessedly shallow gash across the angel’s stomach. Another bowl appears, collecting the dark liquid as it flows out, staining the white shirt a dark, horrific red.

Dean hears a shout and sees Sam fall to the ground, most likely knocked out. Dean runs towards his brother, momentarily forgetting about Castiel. He pushes the demon to the ground, gritting out ‘What did you do to my brother, you son of a bitch,’ through his teeth.

Suddenly, Castiel’s restraints disappear, and his arms fall from their points on the sandstone wall. It takes him mere seconds to throw his hand up and burn the first demon from its meat suit, but the shorter demon cackles manically. Castiel looks up, only to see the demon light a ring of what can only be holy fire, and Castiel is trapped.

While Dean had the demon’s limbs trapped, he can’t stop him from chanting. A few yards away, Castiel curls in on himself, like he can hold in his blood with only his knees and will alone. The demon thrashes and struggles under Dean, glowering and spiting acerbic remarks at the hunter.

Somehow, though a hit has not been landed, Dean’s nose starts bleeding. Castiel groans and cries out, obviously in severe physical pain. Dean looks up, unable to do anything to help his friend.

Then, like a light at the end of a tunnel, Dean sees the demon knife. He reaches out, grabs the handle, the familiar weight giving him confidence, and drives the jagged blade into the demon’s chest. His eyes flash and his mouth hangs open, in the middle of a line of incantation. From second to second, Dean is no longer fighting a demon. He is just sitting on a dead body. Castiel’s cries cease, and Dean lets out a breath he did not know he had been holding.

Pushing himself off, he goes to Sam first, brushing his hair away from his face and checking his pulse. He probably has a concussion, and they’re going to need to check into the ER, but they’ve seen worse. He leans his gargantuan brother against the wall and turns his attention to Castiel.

Castiel is curled up in a foetal position, clutching his stomach and lying on his side. The half of his face that Dean can actually see is twisted in a pained grimace, and the holy fire casts a strange light on his skin. He’s gone pale and wan, and as Dean kicks dirt onto the flames, Castiel makes a whimpering noise. Dean kneels in front of his friend, fingers gently resting on his shoulder and thigh, carefully prying him open like he’d had to do whenever Sam had a fever. Cas seems to be mostly unresponsive, but in a ‘mostly unconcious’ way rather than a ‘mostly dead’ way. Sam staggers over just as Dean pulls Cas into a sitting position. The wound seems to have mostly closed, but when he went to touch it or to wipe away some of the blood, Cas growled and almost snapped back into his tight coil Dean had just unwound him from. Dean throws the angel’s arm over his shoulder and drags him to the car much like that. Sam looks like he would like to help, but he is still bleary-eyed and keeps pitching over as he walks. It is no simple task to set Cas up in a way that looks even vaguely comfortable, but Dean ends up leaving him lying on his side with his knees tucked under his chin. The way Castiel’s knuckles have gone white from the tightness of his grip on his ankles is disconcerting, but there are worse ways to deal with pain. Most of them involve a lot more alcohol.

‘He’s not going to the ER.’ Sam croaks out as Dean pulls out of the parking space.

‘What?’ Dean snaps, glaring at his brother. ‘We need to do something, Sam, just look at him!’

‘Dean, he’s an angel. There is nothing the doctors can help with that hasn’t been fixed already.’ Sam scrubs his face with the heel of his palm, pressing it into his eye-sockets. The concussion headaches were probably just setting in, and Dean knew how uncomfortable those could be. Sam sighs deeply. ‘I hate it too, believe me, but we’re just going to have to wait it out.’

Dean’s tired and his muscles are aching and his arm is still bleeding onto his jeans a little, so he doesn’t argue. He just drives to the ER, glancing over at Sam every few minutes to check that he hasn’t passed out.

 

V.

Castiel opens his eyes to a large expanse of mottled grey above him. Unlike Dean, Castiel hasn’t spent a lot of time looking at motel ceilings, so he doesn’t realise that the colours above him are the product of mildew, and the strange scent around him is the persistent smell of weed smoke that the cleaning staff could never quite wash out of the sheets.

The angel blinks a few times, moves his tongue around his mouth, and manages to form something close to ‘Dean’.

Dean pokes his head out from behind the partition and Castiel must be really out of it, because suddenly Dean’s hand is behind his back, helping him to sit up.

‘Hey, how are you doing?’ he asks, handing over a glass of water.

Castiel doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t think he needs to around Dean. Dean doesn’t look expectantly at him or repeat his question, just sits down on the chair next to the bed, so Castiel thinks he understood.

Dean stretches out, and through a yawn he tells Cas that Sam’s okay, that Nita is probably okay, and that Sam’s out checking on her right now. Castiel just nods, Dean’s voice a welcome sound over the rushing of blood in his veins.

‘Are you hurt?’ Castiel finally asks.

Dean laughs, a little self-deprecatingly. ‘Nah, just a scratch.’

Castiel doesn’t believe him, because the gauze taped to Dean’s forearm indicates something a fair sight larger than “just a scratch”. Dean had an irritating habit of downplaying all his injuries. Castiel was only just beginning to understand that Dean puts himself after everyone else. Under the layers of sex and beer and assertive masculinity, Dean still thinks he needs to save the world. He treats himself like a modern day Atlas, refuses to believe that he has any other purpose. It makes Castiel’s heart ache in a way that he didn’t think was possible for angels’ heats to ache.

Sometimes Castiel wonders if he is falling.

‘Try and rest?’ Dean suggests, trying to mask genuine concern with a joking tone.

Castiel is quickly learning to be stubborn, and instead of lying back down like Dean wants him to, his fingers hover above Dean’s arm. ‘I can heal this,’ he tells Dean, but “I can” sounds more like “I want to”.

Dean huffs a laugh. ‘It’s not a big deal, Cas.’ He says, but starts to peel the tape off the gauze anyway.

It is painfully obvious that Dean performed his own first aid, even though he must have taken Sam to the hospital himself. The stitches are unevenly spaced and a little crooked, the skin yellowed with antibacterial wash. In his mind’s eye, Cas can see Dean, hunched over his arm in the dark, pulling thread through his skin, a whiskey bottle clamped between his teeth.

Castiel runs his fingers along the stitches, feeling the warmth of the uncovered skin. Dean does not flinch at the touch like he once would, and Castiel is proud that he can make the hunter feel comfortable like that.

He lets the Grace flow through him, feels the song of his brothers and sisters tied within the tiny human vessel, and he lets it spill into Dean. He can feel the buzz as the power leaves the equivalent of his true form’s fingertips. The buzz builds, but it doesn’t build like Castiel expects it to. It twists into something different, something terrible, going black and rancid and suddenly all he can feel is pain and hurt. He can feel his pain, yes, but he can feel Dean’s too, and for some reason that feels worse; the knowledge that Dean is hurting because of him. He is shocked back, slamming the headboard into the wall with the force of his recoil.

As his vision comes into focus, he first sees Dean’s pained expression, then the blood dripping down his chin, just a trickle, starting from where he has bit through his lip. The blood ignites a bright, sharp pain in Castiel’s chest.

‘What was that?’ Dean asks, swiping his hand across the back of his mouth and smearing away the blood. Spread out, it’s brown against his tanned skin, but Castiel still knows that it’s blood. Dean’s blood, his fault.

Castiel closes his eyes, trying to form an answer. He can’t find one, just a repetition of ‘I hurt you.’ He doesn’t say anything.

Dean laughs, but it’s a little shaky. ‘Don’t sweat it, Cas.’ He says, and sets a hand on the angel’s shoulder. It doesn’t make Cas feel any better, just fills him with guilt. He could be the one comforting Dean, not the other way around.

Dean sees the dejected expression on his friend’s face, and he squeezes a little. ‘Really, though. It’s not a big deal.’ He soothes. ‘You’re probably just tired out. Rest up, and you’ll get it right next time.’

Castiel straightens his back and smooths his frown – he doesn’t want to sulk. That would be petty and unhelpful.

‘You too, Dean. Rest.’ He says, and brushes the hunter’s thigh with his thumb. It’s a gesture that’s becoming more familiar; something they share when they’re in the car, at diners, after a long hunt when Dean’s tired out. It’s something they share, and it’s nice to have that little touch after something has gone so wrong.

‘Yeah, okay.’ Dean says, as Cas gets up. He curls onto his side, gets ready to sleep.

Castiel closes the door behind him, and flies off.  


 

 


	2. Evansville

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  

I.

  
  


There is a poltergeist in Evansville.

A poltergeist should be simple, nothing to worry about. They’ve dealt with things like this before; a poltergeist should be so east it’s almost tedious. Naturally, Cas leaves the Winchesters to their own devices.  
  
Of course, the hunt does not go as planned.  
  
Dean ended up in hospital with a broken arm, and when Castiel appears by his bedside, he is pumped full of drugs and meets the angel with a dopey grin. Castiel was not there to protect Dean and it is salt on an already wide wound.

‘Hey Caaaas,’ he drawls.

‘What have you done?’ Castiel asks, half way between sarcasm and worry.  
  
Dean pats his arm limply. ‘Brok sumfin.’ he mutters. He sounds tired, worn out, and Castiel’s heart aches for him.  
  
Castiel smiles weakly, and lays his hands on Dean. Through his drug-induced stupor, Dean must know what Castiel is suggesting, because he nods at the angel.  
  
There is a soft buzz of joy as Castiel pulls on his grace, and he feels the electric thrill of it under his skin. It was like the warm feeling of waking up a little before you have to get up and getting to stay in the warmth bed for a few more minutes, or like eating freshly baked bread in the car even when you should save it for later. At the same time, it was nothing like either of those things. For Castiel, his Grace was his soul, and pulling on it was touching the most beautiful and poignant parts of his being, but he supposed no human had ever felt that. The similes would have to be enough for the time being.  
  
But through all the comfort and peace, once again his Grace changes, shifts and it is stabbing Cas all the way up his arms, daggers through flesh, and it’s  _wrong wrong wrong,_ so  _wrong_. It is a murderer locked in a cell, thrashing against the bars of his confinement, mad with rage.  
  
Castiel feels more than hears Dean’s arm snap and Dean’s pained scream rips through the air. In reality, it is a string of unrecognisable syllables, but Castiel hears his own name like a curse falling from his friend’s mouth. As the pain in his body wars for dominance with the pain in his heart, he lifts his hands from Dean like he’s been burned, and in the next second he is gone.  
  
  


II.

  
  


It is after a vampire hunt that Dean dislocates his shoulder. He is in a lot of pain, face twisting with each step he takes as it sends minute jolts up his arm. Castiel decides to try again, because surely now his strength has returned?

He stops Dean with a hand to his good shoulder and silently asks for permission. Dean nods curtly, and Castiel holds the injured shoulder with both hands. He can feel his Grace flow through his vessel’s hands, like slipping into a warm bath, and he thinks he can do this, but the second the Grace is about to leave his fingers, it is as if someone has drawn their nails down a chalkboard. Castiel feels like each bone in his body is grinding against another, wearing down until he is just flesh and cartilage. Dean cries out and physically backs away, free hand flying up to protect his injured limb. His eyes are bright and wild with pain. For a moment, Castiel thinks of the deer Sam accidentally shot last time they hunted a rugaru, of its confusion and wild pain.  
  
‘Dean, I am so sorry.’ Cas says, hand outstretched toward the human.  
  
Dean grits his teeth and shakes his head dismissively. ‘Not a problem, Cas, it’s not your fault.’ He reassures, but there’s a note to his words that makes Castiel think that maybe Dean does blame him.  
  
Cas helps Dean to sit down on the roadside curb and he feels so guilty that he waits with him until Sam arrives.  
  
  


III.

  
  
The next time Dean hurts himself, it is from working on the Impala. He has been twisted at odd angles for a good many hours, and when he slides out from under the car, he feels like someone has stabbed pins into his lower back. He has to brace himself on the car so he can get off the ground, and once he’s on his feet, he can’t stand up straight. He’s hunched over like an old man as he walks the short distance to the motel door. He opens the door to Sam’s bitchface and disapproving ‘You’re an idiot.’  
  
Dean tries to hide his grin as he responds with ‘Bitch.’ He hears the responding ‘jerk’ as he flops dramatically onto his bed.  
  
He manages to doze lightly before Cas turns up, when the rush of displaced air that signals the angel’s arrival startles him into awareness.  
  
‘Hello, Dean.’ Castiel intones.  
  
Dean smiles, but as he attempts to sit up, his back twinges.  
  
Castiel looks briefly concerned. Before he can ask Dean if he is hurt and make Dean feel guilty for not looking after himself, Dean answers the unspoken question.  
  
‘Pulled a muscle when I was working on the Impala.’  
  
Castiel nods, and his hand twitches by his side. ‘Can I?’ he asks, strangely reproachful. He remembers the last few times that he’s tried this, remembers Dean’s face go shocked and pained.  
  
Dean shrugs. It’ll get better in a few days time anyway; he can probably wait it out. ‘Yeah, whatever.’  
  
Castiel sits beside him on the bed and motions for Dean turn over to his stomach. He settles his palms on the small of Dean’s back, and it all feels like it should – the sluggish warmth, the spark between their skin, but then somehow it slips out of Castiel’s reach, wrenches the power out of his control, and the feathers turn to daggers and Dean shouts.  
  
Sam jumps out of the bathroom, towel around his waist. ‘What’s going on?’ he shouts, alarmed.  
  
Castiel has backed away from Dean, is almost afraid to look at him. This is three times now. Three times that he’s tried to help Dean and only ended up making it worse. Three times that he has failed in his duty, the only duty that matters. Three times that he’s failed the man who has showed him so much.  
  
Dean’s clutching his shoulder, and pulls himself into a sitting position. His teeth are gritted with pain.  
  
‘Dean,’ he says, and while it’s only one word, just a name, it means so much more. It’s a thousand apologies shoved into a single syllable.  
  
‘Cas…’ Dean says, but he doesn’t look Castiel in they eye. ‘Just go.’  
  
And it’s like a punch to the solar plexus. Castiel legitimately thought it was getting better, that  _Dean_  was getting better. To hear that raw emotion in his voice? That is the most painful experience Castiel has ever had.  
  
When he leaves the hunter in the motel room, he isn’t sure if he will be coming back.  
  
  


IV.

  
  


Castiel goes home. He goes back to heaven. He tries to find the least populated heaven, the quietest one he can find, and he ends up in something resembling a butcher’s shop cool room. He is still wearing Jimmy, and he thinks that he must be the only angel in a human form, until a sweet-faced young gentleman, with curly hair and a nice smile, approaches him.

‘Hello,’ the angel says, in a pronouncedly British accent. ‘You must be Castiel.’  
  
The blonde angel must be many thousands of years older than Castiel, because he is obviously much more powerful. He has relocated them to another heaven before Castiel even notices.  
  
They’ve landed somewhere that bears a striking resemblance to a bookstore. Granted, one that doesn’t see many customers, but a bookstore all the same. The tomes are piled one of top of the other in crooked, haphazard towers, and dust shines in the air, highlighted by a soft glow coming from the solitary window. He thinks he might be on earth. For a fleeting second, it reminds him of the library shelves that he and Dean had sat behind back in Memphis, many weeks ago, now.  
  
The other angel seats himself opposite Castiel, pressing a warm beverage into his hands. It looks a little like the coffee Dean sometimes buys him when they’re at diners or during a stakeout, that Dean makes with too much creamer. When he smells it, though, it doesn’t smell anything like coffee. It’s sweeter, more like chocolate pie than the bitter aroma he has become accustomed to.  
  
The blonde angel smiles, and Castiel feels a pang of regret, because it is so unfamiliar on an angel’s face. ‘It’s hot cocoa, dear boy.’ He explains. ‘It really is one of the best things the humans have come up with.’  
  
Castiel nods, and silently takes a sip. It is warm, and milky, and much… softer than coffee. It is very, very sweet, but he finds he doesn’t really mind.  
  
The angel sitting across from him goes to take a sip of his own drink, but as his lips touch the cup, he throws one hand up and makes a high pitched noise of distress that startles Castiel out of his drinking.  
  
‘Oh goodness!’ he exclaims. ‘I’ve not introduced myself! How terribly rude of me.’  
  
Castiel is about to tell him not to worry, but that is always Dean’s job, and he finds he doesn’t quite know the right words. The angel saves him the trouble, though, because he leans across the table and offers his hand to Castiel. Castiel clasps it, shakes once.  
  
‘I’m Aziraphale.’ He says, smiling brightly.  
  
Castiel finds himself responding with a smile of his own, if a weak one. Aziraphale seems like the kind of person one would smile at.  
  
Aziraphale brushes his hands over his waistcoat – a tawdry little tweed affair – and as he sits back down, there is an embarrassed little huff of breath. ‘Right, now that’s sorted-’  
  
Castiel took another sip of the hot cocoa as the silence stretches on. No doubt, if Dean were here, he would be proclaiming the awkwardness of the situation. Aziraphale seems to be fidgeting a little, as if he, too, finds it uncomfortable. There is a delicate subject hanging in the air; even Castiel’s rusty social skills can sense that. He also knows that neither of them is quite willing to mention it.  
  
Aziraphale clears his throat, and Castiel feels his stomach curl in on itself.  
  
‘Castiel, my dear,’ Aziraphale begins, his expression soft, like he is about to give some very bad news. ‘They know what you’re doing. “They” being Up There, naturally.’  
  
If Castiel had not been entirely motionless already, he would have frozen as soon as the words slipped form Aziraphale’s lips.  
  
‘They know your sympathies for the Winchesters outweigh your sympathies for “upstairs”.’ Aziraphale punctuates his words with finger quotes. He sighs. ‘I’m sorry.’  
  
Castiel feels like there is a vice around his throat, and it is pulling tighter. He does not need to breathe, but the feeling is pushing sounds out of his mouth. He can feel Jimmy Novak’s heart speeding up, the blood racing through spiderwebbing veins and fragile capillaries. Aziraphale is next to Castiel before the younger angel can register it, and a pale hand is resting on Castiel’s chest, over the pounding heart.  
  
‘Castiel-’ Aziraphale begins, but Castiel interrupts.  
  
‘Cas.’ He says, dazed.  
  
Aziraphale raises an eyebrow in question. ‘Sorry?’  
  
‘Cas.’ He repeats. ‘Call me Cas.’  
  
The side of Aziraphale’s mouth turns upwards; a half smile, but a smile all the same. ‘Okay then,’ he says, his amusement bleeding into the tone of his voice. ‘Cas.’  
  
There is a break in the conversation, as if Azriaphale is pondering recent events.  
  
He finally breaks the silence with a strange statement. ‘I live in London.’  
  
Castiel pauses, confused. ‘I do not see the relevance of that statement.’ Castiel intones, because it’s true; he really doesn’t.  
  
Aziraphale lets out a short, surprised laugh.  
  
‘Don’t you now?’ He takes a deep breath, as if he is preparing for a confession. ‘I live in London, in the back of a bookshop, and every Friday I have lunch at the Ritz with a demon.’ Aziraphale tapped a staccato beat on the table for a few seconds, then stopped abruptly, eyes flicking from Castiel’s to the mug in his own hands.  
  
Castiel waits for more of the story to unravel.  
  
‘Upstairs has a very vague idea of it all, you see. They know I live in London now, and they’ve noted my absence amongst the host, but the don’t know about the demon.’  
  
Castiel nods. He does not feel like he should interrupt.  
  
‘The demon…’ Aziraphale begins, but trails off. ‘Crowley is very important to me.’  
  
Castiel startles a little at the name, but it isn’t pronounced like the Crowley he knows.  
  
Aziraphale taps on the table again, searching for the right words. ‘He is also very assuredly  _bad_  for me, and I should have left him a long time ago.’ Aziraphale makes it seem like a simple matter, but Castiel knows enough to realise that it is very much the opposite.  
  
Castiel knows that there is something odd about the other angel by now; something in the way he blushes and stammers; something in the way he makes Castiel feel at home. It isn’t  _angelic_ , in the strictest sense. Angels do not fidget, they do not chat, and they  _certainly_  do not make cocoa. Angels stand guard. They are vigilant, and powerful, and full of wrath.  
  
Perhaps, Castiel thought, Aziraphale had been standing guard for too long.  
  
‘Why do you stay?’ Castiel croaks out, his voice barely a whisper.  
  
Aziraphale smiles, and given the subject, it should be sad, it should be hard to believe, but it isn’t. Castiel knows that smile – it’s the same when Dean finishes working on the Impala, or after Sam has read a really good book – it’s the look a human makes when they’ve accomplished something they really love. Castiel sees that smile on Aziraphale’s face, and he doesn’t need an answer. Aziraphale stays because he has built an entire life all for himself.  
  
‘Why do you?’  
  
It is like Castiel has been knocked backwards, like his feet have been taken out from under him. How is it that this stranger knows him better than the entire host of heaven?  
  
‘Love is the most painful things you can feel, Castiel.’ Azriaphale says, and Castiel can hear the truth in his words. ‘But it does not mean it is not worth everything you have.’ Azriaphale took a quick sip from his cocoa, which was no doubt reaching room temperature. ‘Other angels don’t understand that; that love hurts. They only know the love of god, the love of creation.’ Aziraphale finished off his cocoa, and gestured at Castiel with the empty mug. ‘But, I suppose, other angels don’t know love like we do.’  
  
Castiel finds, surprisingly, that he agrees. He stands up, thanks Aziraphale for his hospitality, and leaves through the front door of the little bookshop,  
  
He thinks it’s time to go home.


	3. Chicago

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  

I.

Castiel wants to find Dean, and he wants to apologise. Even if he can’t touch him, if they never share that ever again, he needs to know that Dean is okay. But Castiel does not want to face Dean straight away, so he throws himself into the fourth plane, letting his Grace pull him to wherever it is drawn.

He knows he has landed in a trap the moment Jimmy’s skin snaps back around his Grace. He can feel it in the way the air shifts around him, the sickly sensation as it slips underneath Jimmy’s skin and holds onto his form. It is not just a physical trap, but a supernatural one to. He is held completely still, both vessel and angelic form, pinned against a wall. It isn’t dark – in fact, Castiel thinks it must be the middle of the day outside – so his vision is impeccable as a humanoid figure walks up to him, brandishing what looks a lot like an angelic blade.

‘Hello, Castiel,’ A deep, gravelly voice greets him. It sounds like oil dripped into acid, acrid and dangerous and unpredictable, yet he feels an undeniable pull towards the voice. He wonders if Adam and Eve felt like this when they were faced with Satan in the Garden of Eden.

It is then that Castiel can sense it, that he can feel the power coming off the figure in inky, suffocating waves.

‘Nephillim.’ Castiel announces.

The Nephil smiles manically. ‘Why yes, you’re right! Clever boy. Shame you couldn’t pick it up before you landed, isn’t it?’ It flicks the tip of the blade under its fingers, cleaning out imaginary dirt. ‘Well, a shame for you.’

Castiel glares at the monstrosity before him. He is sure the creature can feel the disgust rolling off him, but it doesn’t seem to recoil.

‘You couldn’t have avoided it. You see,’ it says, and suddenly there is a normal blade in its hand and it is pressing up underneath Castiel’s chin, into the soft, exposed flesh there. ‘I’ve been watching you since the start.’

With a flick of the wrist, the knife slices right through the vulnerable skin on Castiel’s neck. It is obviously not a normal blade, because Castiel feels a burn move sluggishly underneath his skin. He tries to clutch at the wound, because it’s bleeding steadily, but his hands are still fixed in place.

‘Nephillim, demon, angel. What does it all _mean,_ Castiel?’ The Nephil spits out its words like they are burning the inside of his mouth, like they are acid on its tongue.

Castiel tries to answer, but he realises that the Nephil has gagged him.

‘I go by Clyde, myself.’ It says, mouth twisting in wry satisfaction. On anybody else, the smile might have been attractive, but the hatred that the Nephil had surrounded itself with had polluted its face until it was just a grotesque mask.

Castiel opens his mouth to speak, but is cut off.

‘Yes, Clyde, the boy who was “killed” in the library. That’s me.’ Clyde laughs, and it sounds like it has a knife stuck in its throat. ‘I’ve been following you all this time.’

It drags the knife down Castiel’s chest. ‘We had so much potential together. We could have been,’ It punctuates the word with a flick of the enchanted knife. Castiel tries to hiss in pain, but he can’t form a single word around the Enochian gag. ‘So.’ Flick. ‘Much.’ Flick. ‘More.’ Flick.

Castiel knows he is going to die soon if he doesn’t do anything. It is a simple assumption. Clyde has an angelic blade, and a powerful vendetta against him. He tries to speak, but no words come.

‘Shh-shh, babe, don’t strain yourself.’

It brushes a hand over Castiel’s mouth, and for a second he thinks Clyde is going to kiss him – or bite him, one of the two – but he feels something release around Jimmy’s vocal chords, and he can speak.

‘Why?’ he spits out, voicing the only question he has had all this time.

The Nephill’s grin drops off his face then, but only for a second. A moment later, it has sprung back into the borderline flirtatious façade.

‘Because I was lonely.’ It sighs.

Castiel would feel sorry for the creature, but the blood stained knife trails along his jaw as if it were just a feather, and he is a little too distracted to feel for the monster who has trapped him.

‘I’m not human. I’m not angel. I’m not demon. I... am apart.’

Castiel goes to speak, but the Nephil clamps a hand across his mouth, its face uncomfortably close. Castiel can feel the heat of the Nephill’s skin, only inches from his own.

‘And so, my dearest little Castiel,’ the Nephil enunciates, drawing out each word like it is drawing blood. ‘Are you.’

It waits, expecting shock or outrage, but Castiel’s face is expressionless. The Nephill makes a little noise, like it is surprised that Castiel can remain so emotionless. ‘I thought we could have taken over heaven together.’ It continues, as if it hasn’t just suggested rebelling against every angel ever. ‘But obviously not.’

Though his face doesn’t show it, Castiel is becoming reckless. He is only driven by one though – that he still has not apologised to Dean. He has never tried this before, and does not know if it will work, but he reaches out. He stretches his mind, tries to find the bright shining light that has come to mean Dean.

It is like diving into muddy water – he can’t see much at all, just a mottling of light and dark from different human souls. He hopes, hopes more than anything, that he will be able to find Dean, that he will be able to see him burning bright amongst the others. All the while, he prays that he will see Dean through all the layers of enochian carved into his ribs, that he knows Dean well enough to find him anyway. He hopes that he can do enough to save his life.

He fights for for air from the muddy, dirty water, and seeing Dean’s soul is like breathing in pure hope. His light is so bright that it almost eclipses the multitude of scars from his time in hell, so bright that it illuminates everything around it. Castiel grabs ahold of Dean and dives deeper.

He sends an approximate location, images, feelings, sorrow, goodbyes, whatever he feels is necessary, then snaps back into Jimmy’s skin.

Clyde looks sad. Its finger is resting on Castiel’s lips, and while Castiel knows he can speak if he wants to, he doesn’t. ‘I know what you’re trying to do, Castiel.’ Clyde croons. ‘I know who you’re contacting. And I just can’t allow it.’ It runs a finger down Castiel’s chest, and the angel squirms.

‘That’s why you hexed me, isn’t it? To get me away from _him_.’

Clyde claps, the sound too loud in the echo-y hall. ‘Well done!’ it praises. ‘You got it right! Didn’t think you’d work it out, actually. I was a little disappointed.’ Clyde pouts, then sighs dramatically. ‘It’s true, I’m terribly possessive. If I can’t have you, no-one can.’ It says, composed, as he calmly plunges the knife into Castiel’s throat.

 

II.

Castiel wakes to the smell of blood. He lifts his hand to his throat to find it dried on his neck, but no puncture wound. He is still magnificently, blissfully alive.

Dean is kneeling above him, and there is blood on his hands too. The blood doesn’t seem human, but it doesn’t seem like it’s his either. Somewhere in between.

Nephillim blood.

‘Hello, Dean.’ Castiel says, smiling at his human.

‘Hey, Cas.’ Dean replies, smiling too. His hand is resting lightly on Castiel’s shoulder, like he is worried he will to break him.

‘I-‘ Castiel begins, but is cut off by Dean shushing him.

‘No, I need to tell you something.’ Dean tells him, and runs a nervous hand through his hair. ‘I heard your thoughts, Cas. Before. When you thought you were going to die.’

Castiel does not say anything because he does not know what will sound right. He doesn’t even remember what he was thinking outside of _Dean_. He was too scared to think of anything else, really.

‘They were all about me.’ Dean whispers, and, okay, perhaps Castiel thoughts had been as simple as he thought.

Dean’s eyes go sharp and deep, sparking with anticipation. Castiel has seen that look in the eyes of a prophet many times before. It’s the look of sudden realisation, of a life changing epitome. It’s the same look shared by mothers who see their child for the first time, by university students on their final day of exams, by scientists receiving the Nobel Prize after years of research and dedication.

It’s the look of a someone who has just seen their soul mate for the very first time.

Dean catches Castiel’s chin and tugs it up and forwards, and Castiel has never had a panic attack before, but he thinks he might have one now.

Because this shouldn’t be allowed. This is exactly what they were fighting against; the product of a man and an angel. This shouldn’t happen, it really shouldn’t. He could fall, he could be banished, he could die. Every shred of reason in him says that this is the very worst of bad ideas, but he doesn’t listen to his voice of reason. Over the rushing of blood in his ears, all he can hear is the most important thought he has ever had. All he can hear is a soft British accent, whispering that _other angels don’t know love like we do_.

Castiel finds that he does know. He does understand. He understands like he’s never understood anything before. He may be a multidimensional form of celestial intent, and speak so many languages that there aren’t words to describe the number, but he has never felt more dense.

He loves Dean Winchester, and he has been running from it for far too long.

No-one surges forward, it isn’t unexpected. Castiel knows it is going to happen, even with his meagre people skills. But Castiel still feels like he has exploded into a thousand, a million, a billion, glorious, wonderful pieces when Dean’s lips meet his.

 

III.

Dean is comfortable when he’s asleep. He is accommodating of his bed partner’s space. His arms don’t dig in, he doesn’t kick his legs. He just holds Castiel close to his chest, keeps him warm and safe. He doesn’t mind lending the angel a shirt to sleep in, and he doesn’t mind if Castiel shares the same pillow. It seems almost unbelievable that Dean has such restraint when he is asleep, that he can control usually involuntary actions for Castiel’s benefit. Occasionally, he will snuffle in his sleep, or pull Castiel closer if he’s having a nightmare, but Castiel doesn’t mind. His breath is soft and tickling on Castiel’s shoulder or his neck, calming like the beat of water on his skin in a hot shower. Dean is grounding and he is real. Castiel feels like he’s been tied to the Earth. Dean makes him feel like he’s Home, capitals and all. Dean is thoughtful even in his sleep, just like when he’s awake.

It is one of Castiel’s greatest joys that he’s awake to experience it all.


End file.
